Stir Me Up Read online

  Dad sees his new wife’s obvious anger. And eats a bite.

  Okay—this could just be because I know him really well, but if Estella had served Dad roadkill, I don’t think his reaction would be much different. Same pathetic attempt to look fine with it in his mouth. I’ve seen him wear this expression before. Most Tuesday nights for the past few months, in fact. “Mmm,” he says.

  Yeah, right. Dad’s Adam’s apple’s about to come jumping out of his mouth waving a white flag of surrender. But I have to give him some credit—he’s doing his best to pretend this isn’t happening.

  “Oh look,” Estella says. “You didn’t die.”

  “Why would I die?” he asks, taking another tiny bite. “I can eat American food. This dish is excellent.”

  “Great. Then I’ll have to make it more often.”

  Dad pales. “So, what did you do in school today, Cami?”

  Poor Dad. So much for me trying to warn him. I try to think of something entertaining to talk about from my day, and then realize I have just the thing. “We played body part hokey-pokey in human anatomy.”

  “You played what?” Dad asks.

  “Body part hokey pokey. You know, put your ante brachium in, put your ante brachium out, put your ante brachium in and shake it all about.”

  “What’s an ante brachium?”

  “Don’t remember.”

  “Wonderful.” Dad frowns.

  “It’s a forearm,” Brandon says with a grin. “How many times did the guys tell you to put your glutes in?”

  I smile. “Nope. Butts and such weren’t allowed.”

  “Lumbar then,” he says.

  “Lower back was a favorite, but most girls just stopped doing it.”

  “This is what you go to school for?” Dad asks.

  “Then we used play dough to make pretend people. We had to make a pledge not to do anything perverted with our play dough people and then we were able to divide them into cross-sections.”

  “You made a pledge?” Estella asks.

  “Yes, it was hilarious, actually. The teacher said it and then we all had to repeat it after her.” I decide to recite it for them to help lighten the mood. “I will not make a play dough penis. I will not make a male and female body and then smush them together. I will not put my play dough person in any compromising positions. I will not take two males or two females and put them together.”

  This works—Dad’s fighting not to laugh. Estella’s hiding her mouth behind her hand. Brandon’s laughing outright.

  Only Julian remains unamused. “Let’s see, the last time I played hokey pokey and used play dough, I was in what grade, Estella?” he asks, deflating everyone’s good mood a little.

  “It was just one day of fun,” she chides.

  I turn to Julian. “You do remember what that is, right? Fun?”

  He looks coldly at me. “I can think of some things I’d like to do to your dog that’d be fun.”

  “Why, can’t you even control a little dog?”

  “I yell at her but she doesn’t listen.”

  “She’s deaf. Of course she won’t listen. Just kick her very gently on the rear and she’ll scoot away.”

  “Kick her? Do your eyes work for anything except cooking and using play dough?”

  Great, what was I thinking telling the guy with the amputated leg to kick something? Dad gives Julian a sharp look. He doesn’t say anything aloud, but then he doesn’t have to. Julian catches the silent warning and seems a little surprised by it. I’m not. Dad doesn’t like other people giving me shit—just him, and maybe Georges, if it’s related to cooking.

  Brandon is watching all this with interest. Dad and Julian mostly seem to avoid each other. Dad works such long hours, they rarely see each other, and I don’t think they’ve actually spoken more than a few words to each other since Julian got here. But then, until tonight, Julian hasn’t really made himself part of the family.

  “Pass the salad,” Dad says to me.

  Um. Okay. I hand it to him. He peers into the bowl. Sees the bagged iceberg lettuce with the pre-shredded carrots and red cabbage, makes a face, takes a miniscule amount and hands it back to me.

  Estella passes him the ranch dressing—ranch dressing...from a bottle.

  “Thanks,” Dad says, taking it hesitantly from her.

  “This is a perfectly normal meal, Chris. Every other person who lives in America would be fine with it.”

  “I am fine with it,” Dad lies.

  “Bullshit.”

  Brandon makes strained conversation with Dad about downtown Northampton, because he lives there and Dad works there. Then, as I’m taking my plate to the sink, Julian’s wheelchair rolls up behind me.

  “Move,” he says.

  Okay, wait—Dad and Estella asked me to be nice to him. But does this mean I have to put up with whatever rudeness he dishes out? I decide no. “Hold on, wait your turn.”

  “Just take this for me.”

  “Why, can’t you do it yourself?”

  “It’s a dirty plate and I’m in a wheelchair.”

  “So? You can put your own plate in the sink. It’s an easy reach.”

  “Not with you in the way. Oh, no. Here comes your animal.”

  I take Julian’s plate from him and set it on the floor for Shelby. She’s thrilled.

  “I’m not getting that now,” he says. “No, Bran, don’t you get it either.”

  I leave.

  “We’re not getting that!” he yells.

  Suddenly I realize what Dad will do if this keeps up—he’ll open the restaurant on Tuesdays. Next Tuesday, I decide, I’d better offer to lend Estella a hand. Make the salad for her at least. I get my backpack and pass Julian and Brandon in the hall. “The plate’s still there,” Julian growls at me.

  “And your point is?” I walk around them and head up to do my homework.

  Dad and Estella are still arguing in the kitchen. Man, I wish my upstairs alcove had a door.

  * * *

  Despite all the fighting over dinner—or maybe because of it—ugh—I’m awakened late that night to the unmistakable sounds of Dad and Estella, particularly Estella, having sex. My face burns and I take my pillow and blanket with me to the downstairs sofa—the sofa that’s like maybe ten feet from Julian’s door. The door is ajar. I don’t hear anything.

  Dad and Estella are upstairs, thankfully way out of earshot. The house has its creaks and things but it’s fairly quiet. I’m trying to arrange the blanket in a way that’s comfortable and trying not to think of what drove me down here in the first place when I hear a noise from Julian’s room. A crash that sounds like breaking glass. I hesitate for a second, and then hurry over.

  “Julian?”

  There’s no answer.

  I poke my head in and try it louder. “Julian?”

  Still nothing. Crap. I flip on the light, and my eyes take in several things at once. First, my water carafe is now a mess of broken glass on the floor that’s not supposed to get wet. Second, the arm he’s currently using to shield his eyes is streaked with blood. And third, he’s having what seems to me to be the tail end of a panic attack: his breathing is short and fast. I’m thinking hyperventilation, paper bag. “Shut it.”

  “You’re bleeding,” I say, ignoring him.

  “I said shut the light. And get out.”

  “And I said you’re bleeding.”

  He glances at his hand. His face looks strained and is covered in sweat.

  “I’ll get you a towel.”

  “No, don’t. Just go.”

  I ignore him and go into the bathroom to get him a towel. There are a lot of pill bottles on the counter. I scan them all and bring him two that say they’re for pain, one to help him sleep and one for anxiety, just in case he needs it. Or are those for when he’s reliving being bombed? Or is that what just happened?

  “Here,” I say, handing them all to him. “I wasn’t sure which you wanted.”

  He opens one of the bottles with
a shaking hand and swallows a pill dry while I go back for bandages and some water.

  “Fortunately for you, I have tons of supplies for this sort of thing,” I call out from the bathroom. “I’m always getting cut and burnt.”

  He stares at the glass of water blankly after I bring it to him and then shakes his head like he doesn’t want it.

  “Nightmare?”

  He looks warily at me—to see if I’m teasing him, which I’m not. At all. I sit on the edge of the bed near him with my bandage box. “What are you doing?” His tone is mildly panicked.

  “I thought I’d fix your hand.”

  “I don’t need your help.”

  “Come on, let me see it.”

  “No. Just leave me the stuff.”

  Sheesh, man. “Okay.” I give him the box of supplies and then get up off the bed and start picking up pieces of broken glass. Meanwhile, Julian is doing the world’s worst job of bandaging himself. Obviously he’s a leftie.

  He catches me looking at him. “Done gawking at me yet?”

  The color on my face heightens, but I force myself to meet his gaze. He’s in the same sweats and Semper Fi T-shirt he had on at dinner—he must have fallen asleep in them. “Nope. Not quite yet.”

  “Well, I’m not your personal sideshow.”

  Interesting comment. “You know, you could be,” I say. “It’s an idea. Your over-the-top rude thing works pretty well. What you really need is an old-fashioned seltzer bottle. That way you can roll around in your wheelchair hurling insults and shooting seltzer at me.”

  “Ha, ha,” he says. “Very funny.”

  I move in a bit closer to inspect the pathetic bandaging job on his hand.

  “What?” he asks.

  “That thing isn’t even on you,” I say. “It’s falling off.”

  “Did I ask for your opinion?”

  “Did you think I’d need to be asked?”

  “Don’t you have a hot date with the window about now?” he says.

  “Do you want me to help bandage your hand or no?” I ask.

  He doesn’t answer at first. “No. Now get out of...”

  He stops midsentence, probably because I’ve decided to ignore his stubborn pride and not let him bleed to death. Instead, I’ve sat down and taken his hurt hand into my lap. I’m studying the cut. “This is deep. How did you hurt yourself so badly?”

  “I have a knack for it.” His voice isn’t bitter, exactly. More like hollow. I glance at him, and he turns his head away.

  I look back at the cut. “I think you need stitches.”

  “I don’t need stitches.”

  “Maybe I should wake Estella.”

  “No, don’t,” he says. “Let her rest.”

  Hmm, he’s concerned about Estella getting her rest? This must be a remnant of the old, pre-injury Julian—the considerate one. I take the bandages and start wrapping his hand up, but as soon as the tape is down he yanks his arm away. “You’re done.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Thank you,” he mutters. “Now get out.”

  I return to the couch, leaving Mister Personality to himself.

  Chapter Nine

  There’s this dish I’ve been playing with in my mind for the restaurant—a beet and goat cheese Napoleon, only instead of it being just red-white-red-white, I want to make it with golden beets as well. Actually my idea is to fan the thing in a spiral like you’d fan a twisted tower and use halves of both red and gold beets so the colors swirl around. I’m planning to plate it with micro greens, a muscat orange vinaigrette dressing and candied pecans. The ingredients are fairly easy to prepare. It’s the assembly that’s difficult.

  I’ve already roasted, peeled and cut the beets into little rectangles when Dad comes over to me. “The restaurant is closed. Perhaps you haven’t noticed.”

  “I’ve noticed. This is for you to try.”

  “Hmm.” He frowns and watches me stuff the herbed goat cheese into a pastry bag. I’ve added mascarpone to it to make it the right consistency.

  “You’re making me nervous,” I say.

  “Too bad.”

  “But this is the hard part.”

  “So?”

  I sigh and take a red beet rectangle and a golden beet rectangle and align them so they’re matched up.

  “We need to talk about college,” Dad says.

  “Not now.” Pastry bag with a star tip. Damn, do I want the star tip or the regular one? Dad’s eyeing me. Rectangle—star tip—is that too busy? Yes. I take the cheese out of the bag and Dad’s eyebrows go up.

  “We really should take a trip up there so you can see the school,” he says, “have an interview.”

  “No thanks. The interview’s optional. I opt out.” I get the tip I need from the pastry department, replace it in the bag and start again.

  “Keep it small,” Dad coaches.

  “I am keeping it small.”

  “Smaller.”

  “Smaller?”

  “Oui—un petit morceau.”

  Okay. I line up the next pair of rectangles so they’re about twenty degrees turned to the left. They tilt on the goat cheese. “Merde.”

  “Keep going.”

  I add another dot of goat cheese and Dad’s right. It helps with the balance. “This isn’t going to work,” I mutter.

  “It might.”

  “It’ll tip.”

  “Keep going. Try it.”

  Okay—I add the next layer. Twenty degrees more to the left. And it starts tipping.

  “With a college degree you have options.”

  I’m sick of hearing this. So, I ignore it. “Maybe I should just make it a pyramid or something.”

  “No, keep going,” Dad says. “It’s working.”

  I add one more layer and it starts falling apart. “Damn it.”

  “Tomorrow you’ll try again.”

  “I can’t. I have school. You remember school—that which you are forcing me to do for four more years?”

  “It’s better than making this mess.”

  “It wouldn’t have been a mess if you hadn’t been bothering me.”

  “You’re going up to Burlington with me.”

  “If I go will you add my Napoleon to the menu?”

  “No. The dish needs work.”

  I grit my teeth and say nothing.

  “Clean up your mess.”

  “I’m not going to UVM with you.”

  He looks at me and frowns. “I don’t want you to just be a chef all your life. Work so hard. Never have time for your children on evenings or weekends or holidays. You’re a woman. You’ll be a mother. Cooking is okay when you’re young, but as you get older you’ll need something with regular hours and security. You should go to the university. Work part-time as a chef while you’re up there if you want. But at least get the degree so you have a way to make something else of your life when you get older and your priorities change.”

  I’ve heard this speech before. Many times, in fact. “Uh-huh.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Trying again.” My fingers, I realize, are the problem. I switch to toothpicks.

  “Less goat cheese as you go higher.”

  “Yeah.” I use less. When I get the final layer on, I glance at Dad. He’s completely focused on my creation.

  “Et voilà!” I say. “Ta-da!”

  Dad smiles—and the whole thing topples over.

  * * *

  That Sunday morning, I decide to treat everyone to a batch of homemade muffins for breakfast. I like making them with Greek yogurt, but all we have on hand is sour cream, so I just use that. Once the muffin base is ready, I decide on adding apples to the centers and streusel to the tops of each. They’re in the oven when I see Dad come down and head outside for a morning run. He hasn’t mentioned the trip up to Burlington since the other day—fortunately. I really don’t want to have to go tour the school and do all that. I’m still planning to fill out the application. Mostly to keep him sati
sfied and because filling it out doesn’t seem all that difficult. Just one application, to the state school—a few essays and I’m done. Of course, I still need to figure out what I’m really going to do. I can’t just stay in town dating Luke and working at étoile my whole life.

  Estella comes downstairs in her bathrobe, hair all pulled back in a loose bun. “Mmm,” she says. “Smells like heaven down here. What are you making?”

  “Apple cinnamon muffins.”

  “Yum. I’ll be back.” She heads down the hallway to check on Julian.

  In between school, visiting Luke after school, and then going to work, I haven’t seen Julian all that much since last week when I bandaged his hand. I know he’s had a long string of doctor’s appointments. Other than that, never sleeping, and always being on his computer, I’m not sure what he has going on in his life. When the muffins are ready, I take two of them, whip up two lattes and bring them into his room.

  “I brought breakfast for you two.” Julian’s across the room in his wheelchair, in sweat shorts and a plain white undershirt. He sees me and pulls the hand-knitted quilt from the hospital over his legs.

  “Oh, how sweet of you,” Estella says, glancing at the tray. She’s right next to me. “Thanks, honey.”

  “Sure. I wasn’t sure how you take your coffee, Julian.” I look around, trying to figure out where to put everything. The dresser is a distance away, the bed is unsteady, and the night table is crowded with stuff. I wind up placing it all carefully on the bed.

  “I’m not an invalid,” he says. “I don’t need crap brought to me on a fucking—”

  A muffin hits him upside the face.

  “Cami!” Estella chides.

  I stomp out of the room and back to the kitchen, where Dad is peering at the muffins. “These look good.”

  “Thanks.”

  He glances at me. “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing. Everything’s fine.” I look at him as he washes the espresso pot. “I’ll do that for you.”

  “No, I’ve got it. You want one?”

  “Please.” I sit down in a chair and watch Dad make the coffee. I like watching him work, even on something as simple as this. “You think the Napoleon’s stupid?” I ask.